Wood blocks to banquet tables  

The ongoing festival – Celebrating 100 Years of Art Deco: Mumbai and Miami Beach (with creative director Tinaz Nooshian so wonderfully executing fest founder Smiti Kanodia’s dream project Art Deco Alive) – brings to mind the lasting Kamdar legacy.

It all started in the 1930s. “Quit India”, the freedom stalwarts urged. And Bhagwandas Morarji Kamdar quit his job. The bright young civil engineer’s conscience stung, aware that the plum government post he enjoyed was British-controlled.

The 1930s heaved in political ferment, with Bombay the pulsing core of the Independence struggle. Bhagwandas got a personal jolt when his father’s second wife Ramaben, patriot and close ally of Kasturba Gandhi, was jailed. Fond of woodwork, which he had chosen as an ancillary course at Pune’s College of Engineering, he began moulding fine-finished Montessori blocks, waxed and hand-painted to distribute in schools. Until his Nepean Sea Road neighbour, Rameshwar Das Birla, asked to make him a dining table. Bhagwandas did, sawing away in his garage. That was his foray into furniture.          

Bhagwandas’ son Vikram Kamdar has engaging anecdotes to share in the Churchgate showroom the family has occupied since 1940. Located at Industrial Assurance Building, in the heart of a resplendent Art Deco haven, the Kamdar presence rose as if in spirited response to this vintage ambience. Across the road from Eros Cinema, the company hub is ringed by Deco-dressed residences. Sleek, confident, clean of line and curve, this genre of architecture and furniture – where striking geometrics and metallic finishes met dramatic accents and sweeping curves – first wowed the world at the Exposition Internationale des Arts Decoratifs (therefore Art Deco) in 1925 Paris.

Moving from promise to prosperity, Bhagwandas founded Kamdar Karyalaya in 1934 at the Churchgate address. This workshop shifted to Kalachowki in six years. At the Churchgate premises Bhagwandas and his team advised clients on colour, lighting, composition and accessories. “I’m proud of the association Kamdar’s had with iconic Art Deco establishments like Markel lights from way back a century ago,” says Vikram.

In the absence of interior design schools then, Kamdar recruits had an applied arts background. Master craftsmen pooled their carpentry, upholstery, polishing and metalwork talents for furniture everyone aspired to. They outfitted hotspots like the Rendezvous at the Taj, the Napoli and Volga cafes, the Swissair reception office and James Finlay showroom.

Bhagwandas Kamdar steadily won customers across India, Europe and the Middle East. With trademark easy chairs, sofas, nursery suites, tapestries and carpets came innovations too. One being the popular “kamette”, a settee reclining flat at the touch of a light spring – used as an additional bed in homes or in offices by top brass grabbing a siesta in private cabins.

To meet mounting business volume, the artist Ernst Messerschmidt was invited to join the design department. The assignment bringing him to India by 1930 had been the Holkars’ Manik Bagh Palace in Indore. “Messer stayed in Bombay on losing his East Germany home,” Vikram explains. “He refined our entire studio culture. Watching him run the company with my father taught me manufacturing and production. I learnt about factory machinery, the timber trade, sawmill processes, wood seasoning and storing.”   

Vikram’s wife Nandini laughs, saying, “Before knowing Vikram, I grew up with four brothers whose rough ways my family’s Kamdar range withstood for years. Hearing our parents boast – that no iron could burn Messerschmidt’s imported upholstery – they decided to test that! Luckily it wasn’t a false claim. I later discovered Kamdar always honoured its tagline: ‘A tradition of trust’.”    

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Once upon a dog…

The Autumn season of concerts presented by the Symphony Orchestra of India is in full swing. Reminding us to describe an absolutely iconic logo familiar to generations of music lovers. HMV: His Master’s Voice.

The curious little terrier, named Nipper (perhaps for the unfortunate manner in which he excitedly sometimes greeted visitors), appears to diligently peer into an Edison cylinder phonograph – the first device to record and play back sound.

Internationally recognised, instantly suggesting affectionate appeal and playing on notions of loyalty and fidelity, the logo has a charming history rooted in 19th-century England. Nipper was the real-life pet of Mark Henry Barraud, a scenery designer at the Prince’s Theatre in Bristol. On Mark’s death in 1887, his brothers Francis and Phillip took care of Nipper till he died in 1895. Three years after, Francis painted from memory their family dog at his favourite pastime – quizzically listening to recordings of his beloved dead owner’s voice through a phonograph. 

Initially titled “Dog Looking at and Listening to a Phonograph”, Francis showed “His Master’s Voice” to the Edison Bell Company, which unimaginatively questioned: “Surely dogs don’t listen to phonographs?” Sold later for £50, the painting over time had the original black horn transformed to one of the Gramophone Company Ltd.’s more modern brass gramophones and adopted as its trademark. The American rights were acquired in 1929 by RCA, making Nipper its de facto mascot. Twenty years after, the audio company placed a memorial plaque on Nipper’s grave beneath a mulberry tree in a garden at Kingston-Upon-Thames. When that site became a parking lot, the plaque remained displayed at a nearby bank.

In the mid-20th century, RCA distributor RTA Corp. erected an oversized four-ton, 26-foot-tall statue of Nipper crowning its headquarters in Albany, New York. “The largest man-made dog in the world” was their boast. And an advertising industry poll actually pegged Nipper as one of the Top Ten Famous Marketing Brands of the previous hundred years.

There is an interesting second image, resembling Nipper in appearance and pose (minus the gramophone). Having viewed it a few years ago, senior lawyer and music aficionado Darius Khambata shares this is meant to be the faithful dog who would dutifully sit outside Jascha Heifetz’s studio for hours listening to him practise. The model reproduction stands outside the legendary violinist’s recreated studio within the Colburn School of the Performing Arts in Los Angeles. The Beverly Hills original, constructed in 1948 adjacent to Heifetz’s Coldwater Canyon home, was designed by his architect friend Lloyd Wright. 

What a fitting tribute to both man and dog.

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We shall have music

Who singlehandedly changed the country’s Western music retail and education scene, being neither a performer nor a teacher? A young man with extraordinary determination, who dared to dream while growing up in the stables of the Wadia bungalow on Malabar Hill where his father was employed as the butler.

“The only thing my husband played was the gramophone!” his wife Antoinette Gomes laughed. What John Gomes innately possessed, though, was faith in the dignity of labour and a head for enterprise that surprised himself.

At 16, he hawked religious supplies around Dhobi Talao. In a while, he heard that BX Furtado & Sons at Jer Mahal in Dhobi Talao risked being liquidated. Established in 1865 by Goan immigrant Bernard Xavier Furtado, the shop sold Catholic articles and serviced instruments for community members in neighbouring Cavel, Dabul and Khotachiwadi. Next door, Bernard’s brother Luis Manoel set up LM Furtado & Co, stocking print music.

The humble tailors of Dhobi Talao (the transit point where seaman inhabiting native clubs called coors got measured for clothes before boarding ship) pooled in funds for 25-year-old John to win an auction bid for BX Furtado in 1952. “If you’re honest, people back you, my father said,” remembers Anthony Gomes, director of the Furtados group of companies and producer of the annual Con Brio (literally translated as “with spirit and vigour”) piano competition festival introduced in 2010 to honour the legacy of John Gomes.

Working diligently through nights, John turned around Furtados’ fortunes within three months. Besides introducing piano hire, he opened a printing press which came to be considered second busiest only to The Times of India’s, with a wedding card manufacturing arm. In 1959, he boldly ventured to buy LM Furtado.

Dogged perseverance alone kept him going, even when it was near impossible to keep afloat with the 1961 government ban on import of instruments. Three heart attacks later, on a visit to Beirut he met Antoinette Ghaleb, who was bowled over by the sincerity of the self-made man and the ideals he stood for. Eighteen years younger, she married John in 1970s Lebanon. Her husband lived till 2003, gratified to watch the next generation of their four children successfully take Furtados forward.

Today, the legendary firm holding exclusive rights to the most iconic international music brands is India’s largest dealer in music books. Furtados also administers one of the world’s largest centres for Trinity College London’s examination board.       

At the NCPA this weekend (July 24 to 27), “Bel Canto”, celebrating the legacy of Italian composers, is the fifteenth edition of the Con Brio festival. It particularly commemorates the 500th birth anniversary of Giovanni Pierluigi da Palestrina – the master of Renaissance polyphony.

Way to go, Furtados. Thank you for the music. 

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The war that made me read more

A month ago, till the ceasefire was declared, people of varying vintage shared recollections of the 1971 Indo-Pak war. Then, city lights switched off the instant that sirens wailed. The windows of my Bandra home were hastily made opaque, shrouded in brown paper sheets we taped together to cover the expanse of wide glass panes.

I was 8 winters old. Closeted in the dark, we all gathered around a small bookcase in the middle of the long passageway of our apartment. Chatting only a little about where escalating tension between the countries might lead, we would lighten up, playing word games and discussing books.

Every aunt in our joint family was an avid reader. While my Mum talked about the Agatha Christie thriller she had finished and Dad about a biography of Beethoven that he began going through that week, each of his sisters chimed in with their choices. Adding to that assortment of voices and views, my elder brother raved about the adventures of Biggles serialised by Captain WE Johns and Richmal Crompton’s naughty boy William – titles he devoured before discovering Nevil Shute and Alistair Maclean.

My personal favourites at the time were anthropomorphic delights: immortal animal characters imbued with human qualities. AA Milne’s Winnie the Pooh series, Kenneth Grahame’s The Wind in the Willows, Rudyard Kipling’s Jungle book and Just So Stories. I reassured myself I’d soon be able to read what the adults enjoyed.

In those blackout hours, a pair of pendulous-branched, swaying Ashoka trees outside whispered what sounded like “Hush shush-whoosh woo” in the December winds hitting our walls. Lulled by their softly swishing delicate leaves, we were quickly jolted by shouts of “Batti bandh karo!” when patrolling cops spotted the barest bulb flicker anywhere on Hill Road.

Without a doubt, some nights were spent tossing in nervousness, thinking what might happen next politically. But kissed goodnight, I usually drifted into easy sleep. Even as the rest stayed glued to the giant Bush radio on top of the bookcase announcing AIR’s news-on-the-hour extensions, mine were sweet dreams. Of Kipling’s “butterfly that stamped”, Biggles’ “cruise of the Condor”, William’s audacious escapades… and which Christie whodunit might prove less scary to start on some day.  

Yes, those blackout hours pushed me to read so much more.

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Thank you for the training 

Loss sharpens gratitude. The passing of Pritish Nandy takes me – and the family of colleagues under his editorship of The Illustrated Weekly of India – back to the 1980s. An unforgettable experience working my way up from sub-editor to assistant editor over six years.

Fresh from college, hungry for journalism, we lucked out with this helmsman. Who brought politics and poetry to the post in good measure. Who called a spade a spade, damn the consequences. Who believed enough in the youngest team members, sending them to confidently interact with the most famous and fearless. If he broke candid interviews with every reigning public figure, he as generously trusted us with those we held in gawping awe, typical of journos wet behind the ears. 

I trod with trepidation filing a first half-pager on Aubrey Menen, whose Rama Retold was among the earliest books the country banned. Followed by a detailed profile of Pranab Mukherjee on becoming Leader of the House in the Rajya Sabha after his finance minister tenure. “What’s to worry? Just get your facts right, you’ll ace it,” Nandy said, emboldening rookie reporter me.

When Wole Soyinka won the 1986 Nobel Prize for Literature, I was assigned a salutary story. His editorial brief suggested going with the Swedish Academy’s statement: “In a wide cultural perspective with poetic overtones Soyinka fashions the drama of existence.” He loved my title to the piece. “The Maverick”. After all, wasn’t that quintessential Nandy too? 

That was the time I handled the copy for Maneka Gandhi’s column called “Heads & Tails”. I enjoyed the fire and ire with which she championed animal rights. Yet, quaked to the tips of my Kolhapuris when she strode into the magazine’s fourth floor office unannounced one morning, “to meet the person producing my page”. I needn’t have shivered. Standing beside my table in a simple blue chikan kurta, she pronounced, “Nice”.

Besides the brash and brazen, a beautiful elegance of prose flowed in his “Editor’s Choice” text tail-ending the issue. Nandy had a decided penchant for words like “serendipity”, for phrases like “the audacity of hope”.

He would holler, “Not a movie title again please!” Desperate to close copy within tight deadlines, we rushed to thumb through a book of classic film names lying somewhere between Nikhil Lakshman’s desk and mine. Any article on persecution or despair ended up headed “Long day’s journey into night” and… you get the drift. Till we were yelled at for succumbing to cliche.         

Expectations ran high at the Weekly. Parallel with the insistence on rigour of thought and expression, Nandy (with deputies Sailesh Kottary, Sherna Gandhy and Nikhil), dinned into us the vital importance of thinking visually. Nothing available online; even chunky box computers hadn’t made an appearance. We scurried to the reference library in search of pictures. Alongside, brilliant photo essays were commissioned by lensmen and women of the international ilk of Ram Rehman and Jaywant Ullal. A very young Dayanita Singh would quietly visit. Not to mention our ed’s several painter friends, led by Husain himself.

So, we figured it wise to surrender writers’ darlings with ease. Till today, seldom will Illustrated Weekly proteges get huffy about cutting their own text in order to fit a fine photo or other artistic image. We wound text compatibly around the creativity of in-house illustrators and caricaturists. Equality over ego. Rare in subsequent editorial and art departments we worked with.   

Thinking visually is a lasting lesson. At the core of being a Weekly-ite was also another quality exhortation: think laterally. Out-of-the-box hatke. He’d say, “Think laterally” at the start of each gathering in his cabin to plot the next week’s pages. A fat 72 of them. Packed with inspiration. Replete with exposes of crooked chief ministers, fake godmen and similar holy cows. Conceived by a man in his brave prime then.

No doubt, certain later exposes slanted towards personal ambition and controversial scoops. We manage to separate the debate and questions surrounding some of his editorial policies, to appreciate much else. Mainly, how he had every writer’s back. The readiness with which he granted carte blanche to features writers and investigative reporters helped critique innumerable establishment excesses.

Never did we dare submit sloppily dashed off opinionated pieces. “What are you really saying here!” he’d storm. The rage was undeniably there. But as strong came the compliments on a job well done.

It was great learning which has stood us in amazing stead. Mere months before the death of AFS “Bobby” Talyarkhan in July 1990, I panicked. Nandy had slotted me to write a 10-page cover story on the legendary commentator at the Cricket Club of India over a series of Sunday afternoons. “I know little about sport, especially this game,” I protested. “Exactly why you should be doing it,” he responded.

Touche. Thank you, man of many surprises and mentor to more than you realised.

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Loss of the legends

I last wrote here about the loss of Pritish Nandy, an editor guiding many through the 1980s when we cut our teeth in journalism. News of his death came on the heels of weeks which witnessed the passing on of legends like Shyam Benegal, Zakir Hussain and Shirish Patel. I had the privilege of having enjoyable interactions with all three stalwarts.

The earliest brush was with the filmmaker who stirred our collective conscience right from his debut film, Ankur. Five years after its release his niece became my college friend. Stirred deep by Benegal’s masterpieces addressing class, caste and gender atrocities, I recall where I watched each. Ankur on television, Manthan and Kalyug respectively in Gemini and New Talkies, those iconic Bandra cinema halls. Subsequent meetings with the man behind the movies were always special, his combination of brilliance and humility so rare, so inspiring.

Moving on to a rewarding early decade of working life. Given the chance to meet Zakir Hussain for The Illustrated Weekly of India, I found myself in the Simla House apartment of both tabla maestros, senior and son, to record Zakir Hussain for a piece titled “My father Alla Rakha”. Among popular themed pages the magazine offered was this double-spread where artistes paid tribute to mentors. Assigned some writing for the series (which included Naseeruddin Shah speak on “My idol Laurence Olivier”), I reached the musicians’ home with my photographer colleague Palashranjan Bhaumick. Palash recently reminded me that the moment we greeted the duo with folded hands, what wafted distinctly up to our olfactory nerves was a tantalising aroma of mutton biryani simmering ready for lunch. “You’ll be bowled over by Zakir’s charm,” Mr Nandy had said. We were as taken by the temptations of his kitchen as by that affable smile spread beneath the trademark curls.

Being in the crisp presence of the pioneering urban planner Shirish Patel was another memorable encounter. From designing India’s first-ever flyover – the landmark at Kemp’s Corner – to conceptualising Navi Mumbai, the urban planner’s achievements need little introduction. I interviewed the civil engineer for his professional experiences with politico-architect Piloo Mody, who straddled public life and a design career with equal verve. “For Piloo, architecture was a holiday from Parliament,” Patel declared. “His manner of drawing buildings was unique. With his intelligence, Piloo wouldn’t put pencil to paper without the structural engineer before him. You were summoned to a cigarette smoke-filled room where he discussed dimensions and spans which then became outstanding sketches.” 

The greats have gone. Their legacies live on. Luminous. Generous. Genius.

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Black horses and red tablecloths

The vibrant Parsi presence in Kala Ghoda, current haunt of the swish set, confirms the community bent for culture and philanthropy. This lovely heritage quarter has long reigned as south Mumbai’s cultural and educational hub.  

The impact is evident on the pedestal of Sir Joseph Edgar Boehm’s 19th-century, 12 feet 9 inch-heroic bronze equestrian statue of King Edward VII astride the striking black horse giving the area its name. Now in the Byculla zoo gardens, its bas reliefs, depicting the Prince of Wales being presented to eminent citizens, show the Honourable Dossabhoy Framjee among other leading lights.

The district is blessed by a host of generous stalwarts. Boasting alumni as distinguished as Dr Dadabhai Naoroji, Sir Pherozeshah Mehta, Jamsetji Tata and Sir Dinsha Wacha, the Elphinstone College rose in the Romanesque Transitional style, designed by J Trubshawe and Muncherji Murzban. Its construction owed to the munificence of Sir Cowasji Jehangir, whose family gifted the eponymous art gallery.

Across the street, till the 1950s, CJ Hall was the prime location for concerts, political events and art activities until the arrival – besides Jehangir Art Gallery – of air-conditioned auditoriums like Tejpal, Birla and Patkar with better acoustics and lighting. Deterioration followed disuse and the 1960s-’70s saw CJ Hall hired for boxing matches, trade union meetings, wedding receptions and discounted garment sales. It was left to sculptor Pilloo Pochkhanawala and art doyen Kekoo Gandhy (of the iconic Gallery Chemould, then on the Jehangir’s premises), to protest this slide from culture to bazaar. The result was the conversion of the hall into a splendid museum for contemporary art: the NGMA.

A good measure of a precinct’s claim to fame is its eateries. These double up as salon-style addas for conversations as deep as the colour of the coffee or as light as the souffle served, depending on the prevailing customer mood. Everyone’s eternal favourite was Wayside Inn. Its affable proprietor Pervez Patel and his wife Pinky presided warmly over their corner-hugging restaurant strewn with red-checked tablecloths. Wayside witnessed important watershed moments too. Dr Babasaheb Ambedkar would stroll in from the High Court to diligently draft tracts of the country’s Constitution over pots of tea on Table No. 4. Bent over foolscap sheets beside rowed pencils and an eraser, he sometimes requested a pen. The restaurant also saw veteran journalists Russy Karanjia and Benjamin Horniman sit together to animatedly discuss the creation of the fiery newspaper, Blitz.

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Fair play

As the city prepares to welcome the latest festive week, following a four centuries-old tradition, suburbanites hold fond childhood memories of the Bandra Fair’s annual week of worship and revelry. Lasting eight days, from the Sunday after the September 8 birthday of Mother Mary to the next – termed Octave Sunday – the festivities envelop the Basilica of Our Lady of the Mount, contoured in the Neo-Gothic style by Shapoorjee Chandabhoy in 1904.    

That the shrine drew devotees on bullocks or in boats across Mahim creek since early years may be surmised from a 1669 document describing decorated bell-jingling recklas (carts) which carried passengers to the Mount by lantern light. Breaking their tiring trip from gaothans beyond, the faithful tethered their bovine steeds to rest in cool groves as they trekked uphill. Returning pilgrims were provided snacks that locals kept ready on verandahs prettied for the occasion. Basic diversions for visitors gradually sprouted larger food and games stalls.

“We went through the fair, not to the fair,” quips a piano teacher, whose home lies along a church-to-church axis, from the hallowed altar of the Mount to September Garden shenanigans on the Mount Carmel Church grounds. In early years, alongside the regular chana and chaat counters, fixtures like old Santan sizzled sorpotel, sausage fry and spiced pork on the spot for hungry customers.  

The Well of Death churned with daredevil stunts executed by Valentine, named nicely to match his hot looks. An Anglo-Indian (a predominant community in 1900s Bandra, with Catholics and Parsis), he revved his bike to roll and left gathered convent girls staring goggle-eyed. Giggling at distorted torsos imaged by the Laughing Mirrors booth, they would dizzy themselves silly on the ferris wheel, while gawping at older schoolmates jiving with dreadlocked beaus at jam sessions.

We wish this year’s celebrations weren’t marked by the controversy involving the stall owners’ protest against the raised rent for their space. The beautiful Basilica on the hill has offered hope and succour to endless generations. May its peace radiate all pervasively. Happy Feast! 

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Why bitter can’t be better

As another new year soon dawns for the Parsis, it’s time to ponder: Why have Gujarati plays that don’t sugarcoat the pill been nixed by Navroze naatak audiences?

Drama was the dominant form of entertainment in urban India from the 1860s to the 1930s. Influenced by British travelling troupes, Parsi companies performed on elaborate proscenium stages, decorated with heavily painted curtains which rose on declamatory acting and mechanical devices creating spectacular effects.

This theatre took a new turn post-Independence, its standard bearers being writers of the stature of Adi Marzban, Pheroze Antia, Dorab Mehta and Homi Tavadia. “Not a single of Pheroze’s scripts had any room for negativity,” says his actress wife Moti. “Fans said, ‘Saara dara per aapuneh rarvu nathi, we won’t weep on festive days.’”

Credited with more brilliant versatility, Adi Marzban was challenged to switch or combine genres. Thousands of theatre-goers simply could not accept the bleakness of his play Asha Nirasha, a worthy sequel to the popular Sagan Ke Vagan. Critically hailed but commercially rejected, Asha Nirasha examined the trajectory of loneliness and loss. Sensitively scripted, meticulously rehearsed and competently acted for eight months, it closed after eight shows. Despite some lighter lines, audiences rejected – the seriousness. Only one word associated with Parsi plays stuck in their minds: comedy.

Realism was just about all right. Tragedy, never. Despite the resistance to the infusion of deep content, Marzban did address contemporary concerns sporadically. Mancherji Konna was strategically set against the backdrop of Indo-China hostilities, Pakar Maru Puchhru fronted Bombay Parsi Panchayet politics.

But public perception presumed him incapable of generating anything but laughter. So much so, that he too came to believe their assumption and justify it. In a 1971 interview to veteran writer Bachi Karkaria, he said, “People don’t leave tragedy behind at home to discover it has stalked them into the auditorium. When God’s in his heaven and all’s well with the world, people can, with relieved detachment, watch tragedy. Not otherwise.”

So, Navroze Mubarak everyone! With hearty wishes for the year ahead… ushered in with a big bellyful of corny, yet spirit-lifting, laughs in the hall to which you’re headed.

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Remembering the Dragon

We are halfway through the Year of the Dragon, as the Chinese calendar designates 2024. The Orient, of course, has for long immortalised this four-legged, winged serpentine character in its storehouse of legend and lore. While traditional and popular culture in the West typically portrays dragons as evil, in China they are viewed as benevolent, friendly harbingers of good luck. Sage and compassionate, imbued with active yang energy, they are believed to protect in uncommon ways, displaying great intelligence and loyalty. Interestingly, the Chinese actually even identify nine types of dragons: Bixi, Qiuniu, Yazi, Chaofeng, Pulao, Chiwen, Bi’an, Suanni, and Fuxi.

It is half a century after the mythical creature was made memorable by being extended contextually to the definitive martial arts flick, Enter the Dragon. Wowing Bombay audiences with a crackerjack opening four years after its Hollywood launch on August 17, 1973, Enter the Dragon became one of the highest grossers of moviedom. Bruce Lee’s Chinese stage moniker gave the film its name – it translated as Lee the Little Dragon, for the fact that he was born in both the hour and the Year of the Dragon (1940), assigned by the Chinese zodiac.

Speaking to Esquire magazine, Lee’s daughter Shannon shared how she is convinced her father’s performance is timeless in that decade’s abundance of funky kitsch. “He still electrifies and jumps off the screen, and is just so badass,” she is quoted as saying, referring to the full houses packing global re-runs to mark the film’s golden anniversary.

The super-successful spy drama about the secret agent infiltrating a martial arts contest on an exotic island to confront a criminal mastermind, resulted in rave reviews. Serpentine ticket lines wound their way around all the streets surrounding city cinema halls the film released at, like Eros at Churchgate. Sold into Lee’s cult following, young men and women fans struck his trademark poses, attempted nunchuck moves slicing the air against fictitious attackers and initiated animated discussions assessing these techniques on school and college campuses worldwide.

Ironically, Lee was denied a chance to revel in the wild impact of his catapulting fame. He succumbed to cerebral edema at a tragically young age, 32, a month before the film’s original Hong Kong release.

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